


May All Your Dreams Come True

by Yuval25



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Crying, Deadly Premonition, Dean Finds Out, Death, Dreams, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Prophetic Dreams, Sam's Powers Manifested Early, Visions, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam avoided thinking about it too deeply, he could almost convince himself that the dreams he's been having weren't real. Those people didn't <em>actually</em> die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May All Your Dreams Come True

Somewhen, somewhere, a tree has fallen. Yet, Sam pondered as he wiped the blood off the iron that made up his knife, he didn't hear it and therefore could not say with certainty that it did actually fall.

Maybe the same could be said for Sam's reoccurring nightmares. The man he saw getting choked to death in his dreams didn't _actually_ die if Sam didn't look in the grief announcements of the newspaper the next day. It was like the dead cat in the box. As long as he kept his eyes away and his ears listening elsewhere, life appeared to be almost – dare he say it – _normal_. Or as normal as they can be when your family business is murdering supernatural beings in various gory ways.

\---

_"My name is Mandy Sawyer, I'm eight, please help me," the ridiculously small, pig-tailed girl whispered into the Nokia model, holding the blue plastic to her ear as she tracked a pair of feet casting long shadows in the light coming from under a white wooden door._

_A shot was heard and the person by the door walked away, his footsteps getting dimmer as the girl's gasps became more frantic under the bed._

_"23 Oliver Street," she murmured quietly, eyes wide and tears making wet tracks down her flushed cheeks._

_Her inhale of air stopped mid-breath as the shadows returned, and the doorknob turned slowly._

_"He's here," she breathed into the phone._

Sam managed to see the gun in the gloved hand of the assailant before he woke up, sweating and panting, in a motel room bed pressed against a warm, familiar body with the sheets tangled around his socked feet and thinking _Not Real_ over and over again in his head.

The arm around his midsection pulled him closer and he found himself silently dry sobbing into his big brother's shoulder, while his brother whispered calming reassurances in his ear.

Somehow, Sam fell back to sleep some minutes after that, lulled back under by Dean's gentle humming of classic rock.

\---

Sam knew, in some part of himself that he repressed deeply and determinedly, that his nightmares were not just dreams. They felt different, more real. He also knew that if they _were_ real, he didn't want to know. What would it do other than wreck him further to know that the people he saw getting slaughtered or in some other way torn from life were real people, with real families and real fear and pain.

Maybe they were premonitions, but then, Sam didn't really want to know about that either. If anything, it made it worse – knowing _he_ had done nothing to prevent it. It made him accessory to murder. Well, if anyone ever found out, connected the dots, and put him in a courtroom before he managed to pick-lock the handcuffs they would have slapped on his wrists the minute they realized what this was. What _he_ was.

_They could just be normal nightmares_ , his minds supplied stubbornly. Little good knowing that did him. He was still nerve-wrecked, jittery and almost painfully exhausted.

In a moment of bitterness, Sam thought humorlessly that maybe it was a combination of the two. Maybe his dreams played out in the real world, and the only reason they were so violent was because of the nature of his job, his life, the monsters he saw every day and every time he closed his eyes.

"Sammy," Dean's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and Sam found himself in the library with a dozen books spread on the desk before him, his brother sitting across from him and their Dad looking worriedly though with some annoyance at the two of them.

"What?" he asked, trying to calculate how long he's been zoned out and simultaneously find an excuse for his lack of focus.

"Seriously, did you not get enough sleep or somethin'? Did you even hear I word of what I just said?" Dean asked exasperatedly.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, picking up the closest book to him and skimming over the page, words like 'Dorocha' and 'fire' jumping up from the text.

Dean sighed. "Sammy," he said in a voice that demanded Sam look up. When he did, Dean continued. "Seriously, though. Are you okay? You don't look very well."

Sam felt last night's terror start worming into his minds and forced it back, screams echoing as they faded.

"Gee, thanks, man," Sam let his face morph into a mock-insulted scowl. Dean's glare made him want to roll his eyes. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Dean didn't look convinced, but then again, he never did fall for any of Sam's bluffs. Sam could charm his way through any situation, with that weird Winchester charisma and the way he would force on a young, harmless expression with his floppy hair and shy smile and get any witness to pour their deepest secrets out in the open and, if he's lucky, offer them food they couldn't refuse because money was always tight and food wasn't always a priority. How fucked up was it that his father put salt first and feeding his two teenage sons later? Just as fucked, Sam supposed, as seeing people become corpses in his sleep.

\---

Sam's eyes opened and he breathed a sigh of relief into the darkness of the motel room. Not real.

He looked beside him at Dean's sleeping face. He was always so relaxed when he slept, mouth slack and eyelashes resting on freckled cheekbones.

Their Dad was in the other bed, snoring lightly. Sam let his body gradually relax as he let Dean's warmth soak through the t-shirt he wore to bed.

The pleas for help still echoed in his mind. His eyes flew to Dean again, trying to focus on the here and now.

He shuffled closer to his brother and closed his eyes. He was immediately assaulted with pictures from his nightmare – a young couple begging their captor to spare them as he bashed them to death with a baseball bat.

He opened his eyes, trying to calm his erratic breathing.

Seems like he wasn't getting any sleep tonight.

\---

Seeing things in his dreams is one thing. Seeing them walk down the school hallway, unharmed and with their arms still attacked to their body, was another thing entirely. Sam bumped into someone as he followed the boy in pure shock. He didn't bother with an apology, just hurried to turn the corner he saw the boy disappear around.

There was no mistake. It was the same boy. A lot less bloody and a lot less dead, but undoubtedly it was the same person from his dreams the night before.

Sam lost him around the next corner, and even though he searched relentlessly for the entire school day, he didn't catch sight of the boy again.

But Sam knew what he saw. And he knew what it meant. And he didn't even pretend to hide his hysterical sobbing from Dean that night when they heard the sirens rush past the motel. He didn't even try to look away as the town got smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror of the Impala, Dean in the driver's seat throwing him worried looks but thankfully not calling him out on it.

He was done pretending.

\---

The next time he woke up from a dream of blood and that empty look people get in their eyes after they die, he skipped school and spent the entire day researching.

He had seen the initials sown into a pre-school backpack so he combed through Lentisfield's entire pre-school system, pulled every child's records from the flimsily-locked cabinets in the main offices of the places, and let his eyes wander over the faces of every child on every playground, desperate to catch a glimpse of that specific shade of brown hair and hazel eyes.

At the end of the day, he walked back to the motel room, defeated, his head bent shamefully as guilt pulsed through his veins at giving up so easily. But that kid could be in another town entirely. Hell, he could be in another _state_.

Dad was on a hunting trip, so at least he didn't have to stand through an entire evening of gritting his teeth through 'Yes, sir's and trying to keep himself from back-talking his way into another six-mile run in the mud and rain. Relief at that, however, was short lived, because as soon as he stepped through the door, Dean was on him, tackling him and holding him down, completely ignoring – and Sam hated him a little bit for how easily he overpowered Sam's skinny teenage form – Sam's attempts at twisting out of his hold. He was glaring at Sam fiercely, and if Sam hadn't known him, he would have seriously been afraid.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean growled. "Your teacher called. You weren't in class. I couldn't find you anywhere!"

Sam huffed out a breath, looking to the side to avoid Dean's accusing glare.

"Do you even know what I thought? What I was preparing myself for?"

His brother looked spent, short hair in disarray and eyes half-crazed with fear.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

"Sorry isn't going to cut it! What happened? Where were you?"

Sam sighed and looked at his wrists still held in Dean's strong hands and then back at Dean pointedly.

"Got a problem?" Dean snapped.

"Well, yeah. Get off!" Sam tried to get his knees up so he could kick Dean off, but Dean maneuvered himself so that Sam was helplessly pinned.

"I'm actually very comfortable here."

Sam glared up at him.

"Now tell me what the fuck that was," Dean demanded.

Sam hesitated. Dean must have seen it in his eyes, because he continued.

"If you leave anything out, I'll know," he threatened.

Sam sighed again. "Fine," he mumbled.

Dean shot him an expectant look.

"I think a family is about to get hurt, so I tried to find them, but I couldn't, so now they're gonna die. Happy?" Sam clenched his teeth, not looking at Dean. He didn't want to see the doubt, the unsaid 'You're crazy' in his brother's eyes that they always get from other people when they tell them that monsters are real. That there really is something in the closet or under the bed or hidden in the shadows. Freaky and wrong and terrifying.

"Hell no. How do you know that family's in danger? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. This was Dean. Loving, caring, Jerk, best friend, brother, everything, _Dean_. He was everything right down to 'Heya, Sammy!' and right up to 'I told Dad to go fuck himself, I _will_ see your play, Sammy'. And even if he thought Sam was some kind of freakish unnatural being, maybe not a monster, but something equally disturbing and maybe even bad, evil because Sam just lets people die, as good as kills them himself, Sam doubted Dean would do something like kill him or lock him up. Or tell Dad.

"Ikindofhavedreamsthatcometruesometimes," Sam said in a rush.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "English, Sammy."

"I kind of have dreams that come true. Sometimes. And they're all bad, Dean," Sam looked up at his big brother desperately, wishing for him to understand, aching with it.

Dean's eyes widened and he opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

"What?" he asked dumbly.

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes or faint or something. His heart was beating so fast. He swallowed the lump in his throat and clarified.

"I can see the future."

This time, Dean let him go and rolled to sit beside him. Sam sat up as well, looked worriedly at his brother. Was he going to freak out about this?

"So, like, you can see next week's lottery numbers?"

Sam really did roll his eyes this time. "No, Dean."

"Sucks."

"Dean!"

"What?"

"This is serious!"

"So is winning the lottery and swimming in cash, Sammy."

Sam pushed at Dean's shoulder, grunting when he got pushed back with double the force. Some day he was going to be bigger and taller and stronger than Dean.

"I can see the future in my dreams. It's always about somebody dying," Sam confessed, looking away.

He felt fingers under his chin as his face was turned towards Dean again. Dean caught his eyes and held his gaze for a few moments before he let him go. Sam didn't look away this time.

"Is this why you've been crying so much lately? I thought it was just nightmares. I didn't realize…" Dean bit his lower lip, then said something Sam never wanted or expected to hear from him. "I'm sorry."

Sam's eyes widened and he hurried to say, "No, don't, it's not your fault."

Dean shook his head. "I should have known it was way more than a scary dream. You've been having these nightmares, what, four months now? And every time you woke up crying. I should have-"

"Stop, Dean. You didn't know. I hid it from you."

"You can't lie for shit, Sammy."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his hysterical laughter. People were dying.

"So this family," Dean started, "They're going to die? You didn't find them?"

Sam shook his head. "I looked everywhere. They have a kid, Dean. He's so small."

Sam felt tears gather in his eyes.

Dean pulled him into a hug. Sam grabbed handfuls of Dean's shirt at his back and held on for dear life. Dean felt like a lifeline. He was probably the only thing keeping Sam sane, at this point.

"You don't know where this family is?"

Sam shook his head again, now the movement slightly limited against Dean's broad chest.

"They could be anywhere," Sam murmured, eyes closed and soaking in Dean's warmth.

"So I say I make you something to eat, you get a shower, and then we sit on that couch like normal people and try to make sense of this whole thing, yeah?" Dean offered.

Sam nodded, sniffing, and pulled away. Dean let him.

"Actually, get that shower now. You fucking reek," Dean wrinkled his nose.

"Jerk," Sam said half-heartedly.

"Bitch," Dean replied solemnly.

And so the evening passed, questions were answered and Dean and Sam ended up sprawled on the couch together, Sam's head on Dean's chest, watching anything but the news for the rest of the night until they could barely keep their eyes open. Then they moved to the bed, completely ignoring the fact that there were two beds in the room, and cuddled close for comfort as they slipped into unconsciousness.

\---

_Somewhen, somewhere, a girl with curly blond hair was burning on the ceiling._


End file.
